


everything else is obsolete

by honeyno



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Praise Kink, aged up!Yuri, lowkey kitten play, pillowfort otayuri secret santa 2k19, references to cat-related pop culture, the russian national figure skating championship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 18:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17289311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyno/pseuds/honeyno
Summary: "So did you have any ideas?”"Some sort of song about cats, I don’t know, like—” Yuri shrugs and then hums a familiar melody as he slides back and moves his arms in some improvised semblance of a choreo sequence.“Okay, no,” Otabek says firmly. “I love you but no, I’m not choreographing anything to fuckingMemoryfromCats, Yura.”(or: yuri gets otabek to work with him on a program, and otabek has several personal discoveries along the way)





	everything else is obsolete

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coyoteclaw11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coyoteclaw11/gifts).



> the prompt i was given was “I love... Yuri + Cat theme (cat ears? cat comparisons?? etc.!!!) <3”, and i hope the person this is for enjoys this!

****“I have an idea.”

It’s past three in the morning in Moscow and Otabek is trying to sleep. Last his eyes were open, the night had been bright in that wintertime way, alight with snow accumulating outside, illuminated in streetlight. He keeps his eyes stubbornly closed now, face pressed into the pillow, like maybe if he pretends hard enough to be peacefully asleep in complete darkness it might actually happen.

“I know you’re awake.”

Yuri’s voice is quiet and stubborn and if Otabek wasn’t so focused on chasing the few hours of sleep he could get before they both have to be up for practice, he’d probably find the worn-out rasp in it charming. It’s his own doing, courtesy of his hands digging into Yuri’s hips and his mouth on Yuri’s neck and whatever else had made Yuri chant equal amounts praise and demand and _his name_ for every single neighbor to hear just a few hours ago. Otabek twitches at the thought — too fresh still to really be classified as a memory — and stifles a low groan into his pillow.

If anything, all of that is just another reason why both of them should be resting. The last thing Otabek wants is to start his morning with a lecture from Yakov who’s been around the block, and dealt with Katsuki and Viktor long enough, to have no qualms about lecturing his skaters about the importance of keeping a proper schedule and the benefits of abstinence during the active season as an ominous threat and a valuable training tool. Otabek doesn’t need to be reminded that Yakov had been gracious enough to let him train with his team, or to hear the reminder that _if you don’t stop distracting my best skater, Altin, I swear you’ll be on the first train back to Almaty by Monday morning and yes, I did say_ _train_ _._

What he needs is sleep.

What he gets is Yuri’s small, jarringly cold hand sneaking under his shirt and sliding up his back as he insists,

“ _Otabek._ ”

He sighs and turns his head just a little so he would technically be facing Yuri if he were to actually open his eyes.

“What’s your idea?” he asks finally, and it comes out way softer than he’d intended. Any annoyance he might have attempted to feign seems to melt away as Yuri traces the notches of his spine with just the lightest touch of his fingertips.

“I wanna do this exhibition piece, like — ugh, this sounds stupid when I say it but, like — a tribute to my fans?” Yuri starts, and Otabek wishes he was alert enough to have the capacity to poke fun at how casually Yuri mentions his rabid, at times terrifyingly committed, fanbase.

He doesn’t know what he’d expected from Yuri but it wasn’t program ideas, so he’s just surprised enough to respond with only a small, “Huh?”

That seems to be enough of a prompt for Yuri who carries on, quiet but animated,

“Like, maybe some cat thing? I don’t know exactly… But I was thinking, uh, maybe you wanna help me choreograph it?”  
  
Otabek’s eyes snap open.

Yuri’s just centimeters away, and watching him intently as if he anticipated eye contact before it happened. His hair is down and messy, and glowing in the low pinkish light of the snowy night streaking through the cracked blinds. He’s beautiful, and way too awake, and smiling cautiously with just the faintest of worry lines creasing his forehead.

He’d never let anyone see him that uncertain outside the comfort of his own bedroom, and Otabek appreciates it quietly, commits Yuri’s wide, expectant eyes to memory, and then nods.

“Sure, I can help.”

Yuri’s face relaxes, and he presses his hand into the center of Otabek’s back with a little more intent, like a kiss.

“Were you worried I’d say no?” Otabek asks, through a quiet laugh, because just the thought of that is ridiculous.

“I mean… no. Just. I mean— we haven’t done that before,” Yuri shrugs.

“It’ll be fun. I’ll help. We’ll make it cool,” Otabek promises, stealing one last look at Yuri’s relieved smile before closing his eyes. “Can we sleep first, though?”

To his surprise, Yuri seems to agree in silence, for once. He shifts closer and hooks his foot around Otabek’s ankle, light but possessive, and instantly comforting. Otabek exhales slowly and relaxes into the proximity, listens to Yuri’s breathing as he finally drifts off for a few hours of dreamless sleep before his six am alarm.

**

Yuri doesn’t bring it up again the in morning, until they’re at the rink and already on the ice to warm up. Otabek’s starting to think he might have forgotten, or that Yuri asking him to choreograph a cat-themed exhibition was some weird hyper realistic dream altogether, when Yuri swizzles his way to Otabek’s corner of the rink and skids to a hockey stop that echoes through the rink inappropriately loud for the early morning. Yakov is still in his office, and Mila is the only other skater who’s already there, though still off the ice, with one leg casually propped up on the wall while she finishes her coffee.

“Jesus, hi,” Otabek says, just a little shy off a laugh while he bends down to dust snow off his pants.

“Have you thought about it?” Yuri asks, as he sets off to do a series of effortless, aimless three turns around Otabek because he’s clearly incapable of just standing still for two minutes.

“About what?”  
  
“Choreographing.” There’s a little edge to Yuri’s tone, like he’s offended that Otabek might have forgotten, and this time Otabek actually laughs.

“I said yes last night,” he reminds him, and doesn’t say _you idiot_ because his tone implies it.

“I wasn’t sure if you were just saying yes so I’d let you sleep,” Yuri shrugs.

“I was,” Otabek nods, and Yuri gets an immediate look of profound outrage that’s probably the funniest thing Otabek’s seen in weeks. He’s shaking his head when he wraps an arm around Yuri’s waist and pulls him closer, saying, “I’m _kidding._ Of course I wanna choreograph for you. I can’t wait to work on it with you—”

He doesn’t get to say anything else because Yuri gets a gloved hand at the juncture of his jaw and neck and is kissing him while he skates forward, essentially forcing Otabek to glide back until he’s between Yuri’s body and the wall. He flings one arm out to keep their balance but lets it happen, otherwise.

“Gross. Gay,” Mila screams from the other end of the rink, and Otabek uses his free hand to flip her off. “Get a room!”

Yuri laughs against his lips and then kisses him again, deeper this time, probably just to get on Mila’s nerves. Otabek isn’t about to complain about it.

“I’m going live on Instagram in _ten seconds_ if you keep this going,” Mila threatens. She sounds closer now, accompanied by the sound of her blades accelerating towards them.

Yuri’s grinning, still, when he gets a knee between Otabek’s legs and licks his way into his mouth.

“ _Nine—_ ”

Otabek moves his hand to Yuri’s ass, just because Yuri’s clearly finding this whole thing hilarious, but then Yuri exhales a surprised _God—_ through his laughter, and Otabek wishes distractedly that Mila wasn’t there right as she counts,

“ _Five—”,_ and Yuri pushes himself away from him and whips around to face her.

Mila smiles sweetly and tucks her phone away in the pocket of her team Russia hoodie.

“Thanks, boys,” she grins, and then skates away to keep warming up as if she wasn’t just threatening blackmail and extortion not one moment ago.

Otabek has half a mind to carry on right where they’d left off as soon as she’s distracted but the clock above the rink reminds him in glowing red numbers that they _should_ already be working, so he clears his throat and goes with,

“So did you have any ideas?”  
  
“Some sort of song about cats, I don’t know, like—” Yuri shrugs and then hums a familiar melody as he slides back and moves his arms in some improvised semblance of a choreo sequence.

“Okay, no,” Otabek says firmly. “I love you but no, I’m not choreographing anything to fucking _Memory_ from _Cats,_ Yura.”

“It’s recognizable _and_ about cats,” Yuri explains, humming an upsettingly off key _all alone in the moonlight_ as he does a camel spin. “You got any better ideas?”

Otabek’s already skating away to grab his phone.

“A _few._ ”

 

**

The week before Russian nationals, they stay at the rink late to work on the routine while no one’s around. After letting the grand prix gold go to Katsuki — by a _tiny_ margin that Yuri will bitch about to anyone willing to listen, which is mostly Otabek — he’s been working hard to perfect his programs before Nationals and he’s reeling from a practice where not even Yakov could find a single bad thing to say about his short. With all of his practice time going towards important work, however, they’ve had practically no time to spare for his exhibition.

“The only way this will work is if you _really_ commit to the vibe we talked about,” Otabek is saying as he cues up the music. “People will get the humor, all you gotta do is play it straight.”

Yuri snickers and then adds,

“I know what I’m doing. Watch me.”

Otabek nods and hits play on the music. Yuri starts with just the slightest up and down drop of his shoulder as he slowly moves his head to glance up while the melody builds. He’s almost completely static but the look he shoots at Otabek, all heavy eyelashes and a suggestive half-smirk, already has more character than a lot of skaters could manage in a four minute program.

He slides into his opening sequence once the lyrics start, and Otabek thinks to himself that he might actually be a genius. If all skaters take to his ideas like Yuri does, he might have a future as a choreographer because what he has set to the music looks fluid and effortless, enchanting like cracking open the door to some smokey speakeasy hidden behind an expensive bookshelf.

Yuri must feel it, too, because he gets carried away with the swing of it, and focuses more on acting up to the playful tune than his rhythm. He rushes through his first jumping pass and steps out of a triple lutz triple toe that he’d called _simple_ a few seconds ahead of the music.

Otabek pauses the song as he steps onto the ice, skating over to Yuri as he calls,

“Whoa, kitten, slow down.”

Yuri takes in a sharp breath, like he’s about to argue, and then skates to meet Otabek halfway.

“Do that again,” he says, quietly, and there’s a glint in his eyes that Otabek has learned to recognize as the look he gets when he knows he’s doing well but wants to do _better._

“Do you want me to go through that sequence with you?” he offers, already glancing down at his phone to find the right moment in the song.

“No, no,” Yuri stops him with a hand at his wrist. “Call me kitten.”

What follows is a record-scratch silence.

Otabek had been joking, staying in theme, but the air between them has changed drastically and is heavier now, in a calm before the storm sort of way. Yuri’s fingertips are pressing into his pulse point and he’s staring at Otabek all dark-eyed want, and it’s close to overwhelming.

It’s gonna take a lot of soul searching to figure out why Yuri’s whole cat brand — which is usually endearing in private and downright ridiculous, almost obnoxious when in the hands of his fans and their cat ears — is now suddenly anything but, and Otabek doesn’t have time for that.

Yuri’s hand is still at his wrist, gripping just hard enough to draw his attention away from his impending identity crisis, and Yuri is, as usual, utterly disarming and about to win.

Otabek clears his throat and nods.

“Tell you what,” he starts, and his own voice comes out low and promising, “Skate this perfectly for me and we’ll talk.”

He hates that the smirk Yuri flashes him in return can only be described as feline.

Yuri licks his lips and lets go of his wrist, skating back to his starting position.

“ _Watch me._ ”

 

Yuri ends up blowing him the second they make it back to his apartment. It’s while Otabek’s sliding his hand in his hair, undoing what’s left of his practice braid, that he acknowledges fleetingly that it’s a miracle they’d made it that far.

The second half of Yuri’s practice had been essentially an exercise in foreplay on ice, with Yuri pulling every single stop to impress him and Otabek continuously finding new challenges to throw at him until a tired security guard had interrupted to tell them it’s time to go.

On the walk back, Yuri had asked “So, are we gonna _talk_ now?” and Otabek had promised,

“Home.”

And then they hadn’t because Yuri’s lips were on his as soon as Yuri’s key was in the door, which is how Otabek ends up against the front door with his practice pants pushed only halfway down his thighs and his cock in Yuri’s mouth.

No one’s even thought about turning the lights on yet. There are skates in both of their bags that need cleaning, and they should think about dinner, and Yuri should be resting for tomorrow’s practice, but then Yuri shifts and moans around him in a way that sends a buzz through Otabek’s entire body and his mind goes completely, blissfully blank.

Everything that’s not the sleek heat of Yuri’s mouth can wait.

“Yura,” he manages in a low, winded tone. Yuri does nothing to indicate that he’s heard. Instead, he tightens his grip on Otabek’s thigh and makes another small, filthy noise that vibrates all the way down to Otabek’s bones.

“God. Yuri, wait. _Bed_.”

That gets Yuri’s attention. He pulls back and stands up in one smooth, quick move that leaves Otabek suddenly exposed and cold, and it’s all worth it for the quick glimpse of Yuri’s messed up hair and shiny pink lips he gets in the second before Yuri turns around unceremoniously and heads towards the bedroom just saying,

“Come on.”

Otabek strips the rest of the way down as he follows him just because there’s no dignified way to walk with pants down to your knees, and he’s saving them time, anyway. Yuri seems to have the same idea, and he’s tossing his t-shirt and sweater aside by the time Otabek makes it to the bedroom.

He walks up behind him and snakes his arms around Yuri’s thin frame, fingers trailing up his abs and to his chest as he tugs him closer. It’s a change of pace but Yuri doesn’t object when Otabek bows his head down and presses a light kiss to his shoulder. He licks a stripe towards his neck next, and when he gets to that spot where tight muscle twitches under his touch, Yuri lets out a moan and rolls his hips, grinding back against Otabek’s bare erection.

Otabek swears quietly and distracts himself from the nearly overwhelming friction by leaving a bite mark at the base of Yuri’s neck, right where he knows no one would see.

“Thought you said bed,” Yuri teases, and with the way his voice wavers a little, he finally sounds as affected as Otabek’s felt since they walked into the apartment. He’ll save admiring Yuri’s stamina for some other time when he doesn’t want to destroy him.

“Right,” he agrees quietly, and then spins Yuri around to face him while he backs him up into the foot of the bed. Yuri gets one hand at the back of his neck and the other on his ribs, and drags Otabek down with him when the back of his knees hit the mattress. The kiss that follows is artless, too much teeth and hot breath and not enough time for Otabek to process the new wave of arousal that hits when he tastes himself on Yuri’s tongue. Yuri whines into it and then arches up, shimmying impatiently as he attempts to get his leggings off with just one hand without breaking the kiss.

Otabek can’t help the laugh he lets out at just how pointless that is, and then pulls away to assist. He strips him quietly, like a ritual, almost reverent when he takes one second to give Yuri an appreciative look once he’s done. Yuri’s hard, and he lets his knees fall open like an invitation, and Otabek just groans quietly in return.

He slides down and presses a kiss to the inside of Yuri’s thigh, and then his hip bone, and the flat plane of his abdomen. Yuri keens into the touch, pushes up to chase it when Otabek draws back to breathe.

“ _Come on,_ ” he whispers, and though Yuri would never admit it, it comes out more plea than demand.

Otabek keeps his lips on him, just breath and the occasional featherlight kiss, to distract Yuri while he works him open, and Yuri rewards each careful, efficient twist of his fingers with a moan, until he’s rolling up to meet them and saying, wonderfully breathless,

“Beka, okay, I’m ready, okay—”

Otabek draws his hand away and moves up, hooking his arms around the backs of Yuri’s knees as he aligns himself and pushes into him. Yuri meets the initial breech with a long, drawn out sound that reverberates deep in Otabek’s gut. He’s patient, usually, but it’s been such a long day and he’s been so close to tipping over the edge Yuri’s had him at all evening, and he can barely wait now, so when Yuri draws in another breath and whispers _Go,_ it only takes Otabek a moment before he finds a harsh rhythm that Yuri meets with a gasp at each thrust.

They fuck quick and relentless with Yuri’s nails clawing at Otabek’s shoulder while he lets out a string of profanity and encouragements until he grows louder but wordless now, save for the occasional slip of Otabek’s name. Otabek waits until Yuri gets that tell-tale crease in his forehead and his eyes slip shut to reach down and wrap his hand around Yuri’s cock.

Yuri gasps at the touch and thrusts up to meet it, only barely keeping up with Otabek’s pace. His thighs are shaking and there’s a flush that’s crawling from his chest all the way up to where his hair is sticking to his forehead. He’s the most stunning thing Otabek’s ever seen, and he can’t wait to see him fall apart.

“So beautiful,” he groans as he leans down to kiss his way across Yuri’s collarbone and up his neck. Yuri whines in return and throws his head back to give him room, incoherent and responsive in that way he only gets when he’s that far gone.

“So good,” Otabek whispers, just so he can hear one more of those sounds Yuri makes in response to his praise.

The conversation they avoided earlier rings like a distant buzz in the back of his mind. He remembers that dark-eyed, caught look Yuri had given him at the rink, and he uses the last trick up his sleeve as he drives his hips down and twists his fist around Yuri’s leaking cock, and encourages lowly,

“C’mon, kitten, come for me.”

Yuri makes a sharp, broken sound, like he’s been caught off guard. His eyes snap wide open as he arches up and comes into Otabek’s hand and across his chest.

Otabek might want to analyze this eventually, some other time, in the light of day when he cares enough to potentially feel embarrassed or weirded out or whatever he supposes he should feel that’s not just burning hot and incredibly, dizzyingly aroused. Not now.

Yuri is whimpering through his aftershocks, and his hole is throbbing around Otabek, but Otabek keeps moving mercilessly and it only takes him a few moments to follow suit, all concerns about his potential newfound kinks forgotten in favor of the blinding heat of his own orgasm.

There’s static next, and darkness, and just the sound of his own heartbeat in Otabek’s ears. Yuri is kissing him when the ringing in his ears subsides and he can refocus.

“God,” Otabek manages, and he laughs into the kiss. When Yuri smiles back, he feels it on his lips, and thinks he might be at peace with never moving again.

**

For the second year in a row, Yuri skates the gala at Nationals as a gold medalist. The competition had been a rush, two days and just enough talent to give Yuri a run for his money without getting him too worried.  
  
When he podiums, he receives the medal and the flowers and the congratulations with the air of a man who wouldn’t have accepted anything else, and then the gala is just the wonderful, delicious cherry on top.

“Can’t believe you managed to keep this program a secret,” Mila says as she slides up next to Otabek to watch. She’s done with her performance at the gala and, Otabek supposes, allowed to be in the audience with him now. Or maybe Yakov’s too busy being proud of his skaters to really keep track of them.

“He wanted it to be special, it’s— for his fans,” Otabek explains, shrugging vaguely. That’s where it’d started, anyway.

Over the speakers, the announcer introduces Yuri by listing off all of his important accomplishments, including his most recent win at the current event, and Mila and Otabek both turn to cheer loudly while Yuri skates out.

He’s wearing a dazzling combination of glittering black, white and bubblegum pink, and his hair has been braided and arranged meticulously into two twists that walk the line between space buns and haute couture cat years.

“Oh my god,” Mila exhales through a laugh, reaching over to grip Otabek’s forearm.

“Yeah,” Otabek nods, and grins back at her. He’s proud of this, and the entire look has turned out incredible, and for once, he’s not about to act coy and cool about it. “Watch him.”

The music starts, and Yuri glances out into the stalls with a dangerous smirk, as if he’s ready to do terrible, unspeakable things with every single one of them. As he slides into the first sequence, Otabek can’t help the twist of love and possessiveness he feels at the knowledge that really, Yuri’s saving that just for him.

 _Everybody wants to be a cat,_ comes through the speakers, and Mila’s nails dig into his arm hard enough that he feels it through his jacket.

“ _Oh my god,_ " she repeats, letting out a delighted laugh while Yuri nails the triple lutz triple toe with a little flourish in the end that feels as if he’s winking at every single person whose eyes are on him at the same time. “You motherfuckers—”

The sweet, sultry voice of the singer wonders _who wants to dig a long-haired gig or stuff like that,_ and Yuri slides into a long, perfectly executed spread eagle and runs his hand through the few inches of freshly buzzed hair at the back of his head. If Otabek had ever had any arguments against Yuri’s first undercut, they’re gone now as he watches the crowd — with all the leopard print, cat ears and memorabilia with Yuri’s name on it — lose their minds at the gesture.

Yuri spins into the fast-paced choreo sequence and everyone’s screaming. Mila’s let go off Otabek’s arm because she’s on her feet and screaming, too.

Otabek just stays put, eyes fixed on Yuri, because he has the benefit of knowing what’s next; the insane feeling of absolute pride at knowing he’s the who came up with it. He can see himself choreographing forever, or at least choreographing _for Yuri_ forever, and the scariest part of that realization is that it doesn’t scare him at all.

On the ice, Yuri slides onto his knees at the end of the sequence and where he’d usually skate through the transition, he _stays_ on his knees and spins there, slow and seductive as the singer croons, _If you want to turn me on, play your horn, don't spare the tone…_

The reaction in the stalls is deafening.

Yuri works the leisurely, sensual bridge as if all he’s ever done is burlesque in dimly lit, cigar smoke hazy clubs for men in expensive suits and women dripping in gold and diamonds.

He rises at the last prolonged note of the bridge and then the music swells back up and the pace is faster, and he flies through his triple axel triple toe as if he never slowed down at all. Otabek doesn’t even realize when he starts to clap along with the rest of the audience.

The voice over the speakers sings _hallelujah_ right as Yuri lands a quad flip that would be unreasonable and dangerous at the tail end of a competitive program. He finishes by spinning madly into a beautiful, steady stop where he brings his hand up to his lips in a gesture that’s just close enough to licking a paw without being cheesy.

Otabek’s on his feet before he realizes, to cheer along with thousands of others and he still thinks, _mine._

Mila screams praise at him that he accepts in a daze because it’s his work, sure, but it’s all Yuri who brought it to life, and Otabek can’t wait to get to him.

Yuri’s still catching his breath when they meet in the corridor that leads from the rink to the locker rooms, and Otabek kisses him immediately, with every intention of taking it away again.

“Incredible,” he whispers when he finally pulls back. “You’re incredible.”

Yuri nods. He’s beaming, and maddeningly beautiful.

“Thank you. All you—”

Otabek shakes his head and kisses him again. They can do the whole thing where they trade praise later.

“Celebrate?” he offers instead.

“You know we will,” Yuri nods. The smirk he gives Otabek is strikingly different from the one he puts on for the ice. “Let’s go.”

Yuri slips his hand in Otabek’s, and Otabek lets himself be whisked away to a banquet he only endures because of the promises that Yuri keeps whispering in his ear all evening, _Later, home. We celebrate._

**Author's Note:**

> the version of everybody wants to be a cat that yuri skates to is [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUSH3-F3AK4)  
> also thanks to ao3 user mechapotya for reading through this first to tell me it makes sense. go read her stuff if you're into good otayuri content 
> 
> god i love feedback, feel free to yell at me in the comments or on tumblr @swanboulet and pillowfort @ohhoney 
> 
> i specialize in gay figure skating content now apparently, that's who i am in 2019


End file.
